


A World About To Dawn, The Night That Ends At Last

by evlytheevilqueen



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, I have no idea when this is taking place man, I'm bad with endings, M/M, also I don't know what happened to the ending, but they're living together, in a house, my apologies, that apparently has a gallery, there is a panic attack in there but it's relatively harmless?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 15:24:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evlytheevilqueen/pseuds/evlytheevilqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Derek wakes up it's to the early morning sun shining right into his face and Stiles' side of the bed already cold.</p>
<p>(One of the many times their traumatizing life catches up with Stiles in the middle of the night and Derek being his rock in sleep shirt and boxers)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A World About To Dawn, The Night That Ends At Last

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic is basically Asia's fault. Although I wrote it I don't assume liability. It just happened and then it got sort of fluffy in the end?
> 
> P.S.: The title sucks and also it's lines from Red & Black (you know, Les Mis) in case you recognized it. The sucky part is not the lines, the sucky part is that they fit only a tiny little bit. Titles are not my strong suit, sorry

When Derek wakes up it's to the early morning sun shining right into his face and Stiles' side of the bed already cold. He briefly panics before his senses tune in to the sound of Stiles' heartbeat clearly audible from downstairs, probably the kitchen, though sleep is still clinging to him too tightly to tell with accuracy. Weirdly enough, that's something Derek is more grateful for than he could ever have imagined. Feeling safe enough to sleep a peaceful and most importantly uninterrupted eight hours – without needing to jump out of bed claws out to defend himself against whatever menace wants to gut him now as soon as he opens his eyes. It's something he took for granted growing up, something he believed lost for so many years it took a long time to adjust to once he had it again.

 

It takes until his brief moment of gratefulness and relief has passed for it to really register that there's something decidedly _off_. The heartbeat in his ear is too regular, too slow. It still has the same easily recognizable pattern Derek has gotten so used to over the years they've been together but it definitely doesn't sound like it should. And then there's the smell wafting over from Stiles' side of the bed – cold sweat and pure, unadulterated panic stinging in his nose and accelerating his own heartbeat impressively the second he puts everything together.

 

Cursing himself for calmly sleeping through another one of Stiles' nightmares – the one disadvantage going back to a normal sleeping schedule has brought with it is that despite his wolf senses, Derek is out like a light until he either wakes up on his own or someone literally does him bodily harm – he stumbles downstairs in a hurry, still fumbling with his shirt as he skips most of the steps. He stopped ignoring them altogether when Stiles started throwing dirty socks at him and yelled about him being a bad role model for their future children every time he just jumped over the banister of the gallery in his presence.

 

Derek will probably never admit it in so many words, but Stiles even thinking about potentially wanting to raise kids with him one day makes warmth curl deep within and his knees weak every time he thinks about it. They're not there yet, but he can't wait for the day when they decide they're both ready to face that particular adventure. He's even willing to take the stairs step by step for the very prospect even though it takes forever and makes the wolf in him feel impatient.

 

The warm contentment that had spread through him at the idea, replacing the mounting panic for a few glorious moments, dissipates immediately upon entering the kitchen, his heart slamming against his ribs and his insides clenching painfully at the picture in front of him.

 

Stiles is standing in front of the counter next to the sink, staring blankly ahead, eyes unseeing and glazed like Derek hasn't seen them in almost two years. His left hand is moving over the counter, the movement of the arm looking uncomfortably out of place and detached against the utter motionlessness of the rest of his body. His long fingers are drawing shapes into the coffee powder spilled all over the counter. Some of it is covering his still naked feet and the shards of what had once been their coffeepot surrounding them.

 

One of the shards has borrowed into the thin skin right below Stiles' left ankle, little rivulets of blood cutting through the layer of brown dust around the wound. Stiles doesn't seem to notice. He never notices when he's like this. One horrible, horrible time that still haunts him in his nightmares to this day, Derek found Stiles like this with his hand on the hotplate, the whole place smelling of burned, dying flesh. That night, when they'd come back from the ER with Stiles' hand heavily bandaged, it had been Stiles who had to comfort him until he could fall back asleep, Derek muffling his helpless sobs against his shoulder. That night had been the first and so far blessedly only time Derek had almost been thankful that the smell of burning human flesh is one of the few things that could rip him even from the deepest sleep, or Stiles' injuries might have been a lot worse.

 

Dragging himself back to the present with effort, Derek takes a deep breath to calm himself. He doesn't have to look at the counter to know what Stiles is drawing. What words he'll see written into the powder. The very same words that will inevitably lead to Stiles having a full-blown panic attack the moment he comes to again and sees them. Nothing Derek can say or do has ever been able to prevent that reaction. And yet there is no other option but to go over and drag him back to reality and watch it unfold before his eyes like a truly traumatizing scene in a play as he helplessly tries to hold on and make it just a little bit better.

 

He drags his feet, reluctant as he crosses over to Stiles, his heart pounding so loudly in his own ears that it's almost drowning out the way too regular sound of Stiles'. He knows from past experience that shaking him will be no use. The only thing that's been able to bring Stiles back before he snaps out of it on his own is the sound of Derek's voice. He'll react slightly to Scott or his dad or Lydia calling out for him, but the only one really able to cut through is Derek. Derek's aware that it speaks for how deep their bond is, for how much he anchors Stiles in reality when no one else can, but it feels like a curse. A horrible burden. To be the one to drag Stiles back and have to watch him fall apart every single time. He's thankful for and loathes this particular ability with equal fervor. He'd prefer it if he never had to make use of it ever again.

 

Once he's coming to a stop next to him, Derek places a trembling hand on Stiles' lower back, feeling the cold, clammy skin through his sleep shirt that's still clinging to him, damp with sweat. At least he can't have been down there on his own for too long. Refusing to look down at where Stiles' hand is still moving restlessly, Derek leans in close, pressing his adrenaline-pumped overheated body against Stiles' side in a vain attempt to ground him or at least warm him up a little. His lips are almost touching Stiles' ear now and with another deep breath, Derek gathers up the courage to do what needs to be done.

 

"Stiles," he whispers softly, shutting his eyes tightly, his free hand clenched until he can feel claws digging painfully into his palm. His voice is shaking almost as badly as the hand on Stiles' back but Derek knows it doesn't matter. He can already feel it working, the shudder that goes through Stiles' whole body as Derek calls for him, no matter how quietly. "Come back. It's not real. It's a dream. Come back to me." He stops, flinches at what he's about to say, opens his eyes slightly to glare helplessly at the two words repeated over and over in nonsensical shapes on the counter. " _Wake up_."

 

There's another shudder, wrecking violently through Stiles from head to toe, then the sound of fluttering eyelashes as Stiles blinks himself back into reality. The breathless gasp that turns into panicked hyperventilating, the awful orchestra of the too regular heartbeat under his palm speeding up until it's hammering deafeningly against Stiles' ribs, lungs straining for air. He's shaking and barely standing and still Derek can't bring himself to reopen his eyes because the expression on Stiles' face will shatter him apart and he needs his senses about him now. So he just holds him up against the counter, rubbing soothing circles into the icy damp skin under his fingers, slipped under the shirt for more contact, concentrating on being a warm, calming presence at Stiles' side, anchoring but not crowding in. His heart is aching for Stiles and he has to fight down tears but he manages to stay calm, to keep his breathing even until Stiles' left hand moves to clutch at his shirt, the right violently, blindly wiping through the coffee powder until there's no trace of what's been written in it to be seen.

 

Once the immediate evidence of what had occurred is gone, Stiles' breathing starts to even out a little, the shaking subsides, his heartbeat slowly, almost reluctantly, calms down. The stench of feral panic stops burning Derek's nostrils, replaced by soured weariness. Stiles leans into him, the painfully tight grip of his hand loosening a little.

 

"My foot hurts like a bitch." He murmurs it into Derek's shoulder and even though it sounds more shaken and fragile than he'd like it's still such a _Stiles_ thing to say in that moment that Derek has to fight down a burst of hysterical laughter building up in the back of his throat.

 

"Well, there _is_ a glass shard stuck in it." He means for it to come out dry but his voice shakes even more badly than Stiles'.

 

"I don't have to go to the hospital, do I?"

 

"No." Derek unclenches his left hand carefully, wiping it on his boxers before gently stroking over Stiles' disastrous bedhead. "I don't think so. I'll have a look at it but I don't think we have to make a trip to the ER or have Melissa stitch you up."

 

"Good. She's always so cranky when I show up in the middle of the night with bleeding wounds for her to mend." Stiles chuckles weakly to himself and while it doesn't sound convincing at all, Derek will never not admire him for trying regardless.

 

" _Arrested Development_? And I guess tea or hot chocolate, considering?"

 

"You know me too well." Stiles laughs quietly and this time it sounds much more genuine. An overwhelming wave of relief washes through Derek at the sound. _He'll be okay_. "I'll pick out an episode and get the blankets. Would you mind-" Stiles gestures at the mess on the kitchen floor without looking.

 

"Sure."

 

It's awful that they have to have a routine for this kind of thing, but Derek refuses to spend too much thought on it as he puts on the water for the tea and gets to cleaning up the kitchen. He's managed to ban it from his conscious mind by the time he's entering the living room with their tea, a bowl of hot water, a few towels and their first-aid kit. Stiles smiles up at him weakly and holds out his foot for Derek to look at as soon as he is within reach.

 

There's even more routine in cleaning the wound and bandaging Stiles up, Stiles' uninjured foot hooked around one of Derek's, his long-fingered hand in his hair. It may seem as if Stiles were comforting Derek to an onlooker but it actually does more to ground Stiles. He once told Derek that it helped to reassure himself of Derek's presence with as many senses as he could. It was such a wolf thing to say it had lured a fond smile out of Derek, despite his heart clenching at the idea that Stiles needed to reassure himself of reality in the first place.

 

Once he's done Derek puts everything away, taking his time in the bathroom as he washes out the bowl and tries to get most of the blood out of the towels before he throws them in the hamper. The routine of it helps calm him down, as horrifying as it may be, and by the time he heads back to the living room he's got a hold of himself again. He chases Stiles off the couch upon his return so he can pull him down on top of him as soon as he's stretched out. Stiles laughs lightly at him but curls contently into his chest nonetheless, starting the episode and nipping at his tea as much as his current position allows.

 

It takes almost two hours of mostly senseless comedy and another round of tea – Stiles insisted on Derek giving him a piggyback ride to the kitchen because he didn't want to be left alone again just yet – but finally, Stiles relaxes, his heartbeat and breathing and scent all mostly as they should be. He yawns, cuddling even further into Derek, and gives him a sleepy smile.

 

"First thing when I wake up." His words slur a bit together with the heavy drag of sleep and Derek's heart soars happily against the warm, sleepy weight of him in a surge of affection. "You, me, breakfast in the bathtub. Want the whole shebang, aroma oil and flower petals and all. No coffee though."

 

"As you wish." Derek chuckles quietly to himself, petting softly through Stiles' hair with one hand, the other linking fingers with one of Stiles' in their little blanket cocoon. Stiles grins into his chest and not five minutes later he's fast asleep on top of Derek.

 

Derek keeps on watching, knowing he'll probably be awake until Stiles will start to wake up again somewhere around noon and demand his bathtub 'breakfast'. And he's perfectly fine with that. These nights are exhausting for both of them in different ways, just as those nights when Derek wakes up with the fake scent of smoke coating his tongue and his throat and tears rolling down his cheeks and Stiles holds him until all he can smell is Stiles and warm affection and their mingled scent clinging to the sheets. They have their ways of coping and nights like that have become less and less frequent over the last few years. All in all, Derek thinks they're dealing fairly well for all they've been through.

 

It still breaks his heart when it happens but there's nothing they can do about that and he'd put up with all of that much more often than he actually has to as long as it means he gets to keep Stiles. They both have their baggage, stuff that will haunt them until the very end, but hell if Derek will let that get in the way of what he and Stiles have been building up together since.

  
If his life is occasionally still hard he'll take that a million times over for the remainder of the time, when it's pretty much perfect and everything he'd never even dared to dream of after the fire took his family and an Argent his trust in the world.

 

In the end, Derek does end up falling asleep as well and they do have breakfast in the bathtub – Stiles refuses to call it lunch even though it's after one pm by the time they actually get to eat. For the next few days, Stiles is just a little bit more jumpy than usual and Derek blames himself for not waking up earlier every time Stiles hisses in pain upon accidentally hitting against the chair leg with his injured foot, until Stiles yells at him that he 'doesn't need wolfey senses to recognize a one-man pity party when he sees one' and tickles him until he swears he'll stop feeling guilty. Night after night passes without another incident and they both relax again.

 

Life goes back to being perfect. To bickering about who's doing the laundry or who gets remote privileges for the evening. Silly mock-fights over whose turn it is to do the dishes or who gets more minutes on the phone with Scott while he's on some conference in Washington. Ridiculous arguments over every little thing from taking out the trash over watering the hyacinths up to the fact that Stiles isn't allowed to jump in front of every supernatural creature passing through Beacon Hills intent on killing his friends just because there are a lot less of them these days, because does Derek fucking look like he wants to deal with losing the love of his life to his own idiocy on top of everything else he's lost? Which gets Stiles riled up over how he couldn't stand to lose any of the people he loves either, which in turn ends in equally ridiculously good make-up sex on the dining room table and Stiles laughing through most of it because he can't stop imagining the disgusted face Scott would make if he knew.

 

Derek is in no way deluding himself into thinking there won't be any more horrible nightmares, flashbacks, panic attacks or episodes in their future. He just doesn't think he could give less of a fuck about those when he looks at the rest.

 

 

 

 


End file.
